


more than a feeling

by zetaophiuchi (ryuujitsu)



Series: light my fire [2]
Category: Goon (2011)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Canon-Typical Violence, Creampie, Infidelity, Je Me Souviens, M/M, Misogyny, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Toxic Masculinity, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27200917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuujitsu/pseuds/zetaophiuchi
Summary: "Look at you," Xavier says, "so hard for me,fuck, can’t believe it.”He doesn’t know why Xavier can’t believe it. Seeing is believing, right? And touching, well, that’s like seeing, but with your hands. And Xavier’s touching him a lot. And it feels great. It’s almost embarrassing, how great it feels.*The morning afterlight my fire. Doug gets his pancakes, and then some.
Relationships: Doug Glatt/Xavier LaFlamme
Series: light my fire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985743
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	more than a feeling

**Author's Note:**

> As much as I love Doug, he's a tough POV to write. This fic is kind of like _Goon: The Last Enforcer_ —not quite as fun as the first time and also weirdly heterosexual (Tab B, Slot A, repeat). But I had to do it. _I had to._ And I do like writing about pancakes.
> 
> Many thanks to [FLWhite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite) for their edits and encouragement.

The pancakes at Smitty’s are really good—Doug gets blueberry, and chocolate chip, and banana-walnut, like it’s the morning after a big game, a game they won—but Doug can’t taste them today. Sometimes when Doug’s upset he can’t taste his food, but he’s not upset; he’s like the complete opposite of upset right now; it feels like the ET light in his stomach is turned all the way on. But his mouth is broken. He can’t even taste the syrup. And Smitty’s puts out the good syrup for Doug, too, the Grade A Amber from a farm in the middle of nowhere, Quebec, Smitty’s liquid gold. Doug’s poured so much of it onto his triple stacks that Becky’s going to have to bring out another bottle, it’s like his pancakes are submerged, it’s like, like…Atlanta.

“Atlantis,” Xavier says. It’s one p.m., but Smitty’s does breakfast all day, so Doug’s got his pancakes and Xavier has his eggs. He’s eating three eggs over easy, with Canadian bacon, sausages, and a mountain of toast. Smitty’s does great toast: buttered on both sides. They don’t do that at every diner.

Xavier’s wrinkling his nose at Doug’s blueberry Atlantis. “I don’t know how you can eat that shit, that sugary shit.”

“Shh!” Becky’s back with her pots of coffee, decaf in the left hand, full caf in the right. “Oh, no more for me, thank you,” he says. “Thanks, Becky.”

Xavier nods at his cup. Becky fills it.

Doug watches her go, spinning around the booths in her cute little apron. It’s white with scalloped edges. It reminds him of his mom’s favorite tablecloth.

“You got a thing for waitresses, man,” Xavier says.

“That’s Becky, she always gets me the good syrup.”

“Whatever.” Xavier slides even lower on his side of the booth. He’s wearing his hat and hoodie and sunglasses, and he keeps slouching, like he’s worried someone’s going to recognize them. A bunch of people already have. Doug’s signed six placemats and a coffee cup. An old woman came up to him and tried to give him a homemade scarf. _So’s you don’t get sick. So’s you can keep on punching those bastards._ She didn’t really look at Xavier, which Doug thought was weird.

“Xavier’s here too,” he’d said.

“Keep on punching,” she’d said, like she hadn’t heard him. That was kind of when Xavier had first started sliding down in the booth. Doug had worried it was because his ass hurt and was going to ask him about it, but the old lady was still talking, and draping the scarf around his neck, too. “I mean it: fuck them up, sonny.”

“Yes, ma’am. I will, ma’am.”

He’d bent forward to make the draping part easier for her—she was like four feet tall—and when he straightened up he saw the funny little smile Xavier sometimes had floating around his mouth. Until Doug started playing for the Highlanders, he’d never met anyone who smiled when they were angry. Well, Pat, but the second Pat started smiling you knew it was about to blow over. Or that Doug was gonna start swinging: usually that was what Pat was smiling at, Doug stepping in front of him and winding up for the punch.

Speaking of Pat. Pat told Doug that once, the week of his fifteenth birthday, he jerked off fifteen times in one day. _Thought my fuckin’ cock was gonna pop right the fuck off after the fourteenth time. It was burnin’, it was achin’, do you know what I did, Dougie?_

_No?_

_Locked the door, spat on my hand, and went for round fifteen, like a goddamn American hero. Heroes don’t quit._

At the time Doug had crossed his legs and winced to himself, but he kind of gets it now. He isn’t celebrating his fifteenth birthday, but looking at Xavier sitting all surly on the other side of the booth makes him feel like he is, like he should celebrate; like he could totally go for another round, or two, or…yeah.

Xavier seems to be looking at him over his coffee cup; it’s hard to tell with the sunglasses. “What?”

“Oh, I was just thinking about earlier.”

Under the sunglasses, Xavier kind of blushes. It’s really, really cute: way cuter than Becky’s apron, and it reminds him of all kinds of nice things, the pink glaze on the cheeks of his mom’s shepherd boy salt shakers, apples, riding his bike really fast downhill, and caramel, too, somehow.

“Yeah?” Xavier holds the coffee cup to his mouth like he’s trying to hide that last part of his face and talks through it. “Thinking about what you’re gonna tell Eva?”

Xavier’s been kind of weird about Eva, even before he met her, but Doug thinks it’s the same kind of weird Pat used to be about Doug’s girlfriends. Not that he had that many. Just Taylor and Kayleigh. Pat didn’t like either of them at first, but he chilled out after a while. He’s sure Xavier will chill out too, eventually.

Or maybe not, since they’ve kind of gone way further than Doug ever went with Pat, which was a peck on the mouth in the seventh grade, spinning the bottle, and Pat had gone into Tracey Davis’s bathroom afterward and literally scrubbed his tongue with a bar of soap. And they hadn’t even used tongues, they hadn’t even known you could use tongues, or at least Doug hadn’t.

So now he’s not actually thinking about what he’s going to tell Eva: he’s thinking about Xavier’s tongue, for some reason, and more caramel, and syrup, and the piece of pancake he has in his mouth might as well be wet cardboard.

“Jesus, calm down,” Xavier says. “I’m not going to tell her a damn thing. Stop panicking and eat your damn pancake. _Marde._ ”

“No, I was…” He puts his fork down and chews. Ira always says not to kiss and tell, and also not to talk with your mouth full. So he’s going to swallow, and he isn’t going to tell Xavier that he’s too big for Eva sometimes, that he hurts her, even when they go slow and use a lot of lube and stuff, and he doesn’t want to hurt her, so he always, always goes slow, and kind of shallow, and it was really nice, really super nice, fucking nice, not to have to worry about that with Xavier. To be able to go fast. And really deep. All-the-way deep.

And he knows Xavier cried, but it was a good kind of crying, like happy crying. And to be honest he kind of wants to make Xavier cry again, in that good way, because Xavier’s really pretty when he cries, even when he gets all blotchy and shiny and the tears are all over his face and standing out on his eyelashes like little diamonds.

“It felt really good, Xavier.”

“Fuck,” Xavier says.

“I want to do it again. Do you?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Xavier says; then he rattles off one of his long and angry French sentences. “Do you want to finish eating here?” he asks, and when Doug shakes his head, he snaps his fingers at Becky. It’s really rude to snap your fingers; if Doug had known Xavier was going to do that, he would have stopped him, but it’s too late now. “Hey. _Hey_. Can we get this boxed up?”

Becky has a cute face but right now she’s looking sour, she’s looking at Xavier like she can’t decide which pot of coffee to dump on his head first.

“Please?” Doug adds.

Xavier pays. Doug swings the door open. The bell tinkles. People yell at him: “’Bye, Doug. ’Bye, Dougie. See ya, Glatt.”

“’Bye, Mister Smitty,” Doug calls. “Thank you for the pancakes.”

“For the last fuckin’ time, Glatt, there is no Mister Smitty,” Mister Smitty yells back. “My name’s—”

Xavier yanks the door shut and stomps down the steps, into the slush. Doug hurries after him. The smell of sausage and syrup follows them onto the sidewalk.

It’s cold. Doug’s used to the cold, but the cold in Halifax sucks the breath out of you and makes you cough when you try to suck it back in. So it’s actually nice to have the scarf, even though it smells kind of weird. He holds out one end to Xavier: Eva gets all mushy when Doug lets her wear his jacket on cold nights, and while Doug might be stupid, he’s not stupid enough to think Xavier would take his jacket, but maybe he’d like to have the scarf. Especially since he didn’t get one.

But Xavier slaps it away. “Get the fuck out of here, stop that.”

“What? It’s a nice scarf. It’s warm.”

“Smells like piss. Bet that old bitch has forty cats.”

“That’s not nice,” Doug says. “You should be nicer to people, Xavier. They’d knit you scarves, too. And you shouldn’t snap at waitresses.”

“ _You_ shouldn’t waste your breath on these assholes,” Xavier says. “Okay, Doug? I’m telling you, the minute you start missing shots, the _second_ you start playing badly, they’re gonna be on you like wolves. Calling you a loser, calling for your head, spitting at you, _yes_ , even that nice old scarf-knitting _bitch_ —”

Xavier says _scarf_ funny, like he can’t get his tongue around it. You gotta press your tongue to your back teeth to say _scarf_ , but it sounds like Xavier’s tongue just goes sideways.

Doug really needs to stop thinking about tongues.

“—she’s gonna crawl onto your back like a—like an evil fuckin’ monkey and stab you with her knitting needles—”

That sounds kind of scary. But he realizes Xavier probably isn’t really talking about the _future_. Xavier’s still ranting, about eyeballs and gouging. Doug talks under him. That’s how you get Xavier to shut up and listen: you speak softly. “Are you talking about what happened to you? With the Corsairs?”

Xavier hocks a loogie, right into the snow. “Whatever.” Then he shivers.

“You sure you aren’t cold?”

The back of Xavier’s neck sure looks cold. Doug pokes at it, at the place where the hairs start, and it turns red, and Xavier slips on a patch of ice. Which is crazy: Xavier’s like…none of the animals Doug’s thinking of look graceful enough, penguins and walruses and whatever, they’re all kind of big and bulky, like Doug, but Xavier’s like them, too, rock-solid on the ice.

“ _Col-iss_ ,” Xavier says. He shoves Doug, and the middle of Doug’s back gets warm, right where Xavier touched him, even through the thick and squishy down padding of his coat. “Walk faster.”

Doug’s fingers are frozen stiff by the time they get home. He tries to warm them in the foyer, but he still has trouble with the keys and the doorknob, and Xavier gets impatient and pulls too hard, and the door blasts open, and they get hit by a wave of burned macaroni and ass. Doug holds his nose and thinks about Pat and Pat’s shriek: _You people live like fucking animals!_

There’s a used condom on the floor, dribbling its contents into the rug. Doug winces at it. Pat’s not wrong.

“ _Osti de tabarnak_ ,” Xavier says. After twelve months of playing together, touring together, _living_ together, Doug still doesn’t know what that means, but he’s pretty sure he agrees.

“We should open a window.”

“Fuck the fucking windows,” Xavier says. He throws their breakfast at the couch with a plasticky thud. Syrup oozes from a torn corner of the bag. Doug winces again. “Come here.”

“But—”

Xavier grabs him by the scarf, one fist on either side of his head, holding tight, like he’s about to rear up and headbutt him. All of a sudden he’s really close and he’s, like, the nicest smelling thing in the apartment right now, all butter and pancakes. Doug leans in so he can bury his nose in the crook of Xavier’s neck, which makes Xavier make a funny noise.

When he pulls back, Xavier is looking at him like someone just hit him on the head: his mouth’s open and his eyelids are kind of fluttering. Oh, Doug realizes, this is like last night. Except we’re not drunk, but I kind of _feel_ drunk. Do you feel that way too, Xavier?

“Doug,” Xavier says, “I’m gonna need you to shut up.”

 _Just_ like last night. “And fuck you.”

Xavier’s voice is all breathy. “And f-fuck me, yeah.”

Doug's pretty clumsy on the ice, and he feels like he’s on the ice now, wobbling after Xavier, slipping and sliding and tripping across all the shit they left on the floor, the bottles, the takeout containers, the pizza boxes and protein bar wrappers and magazines. He steps on a woman’s face and leaves a salty-slushy boot print right across her bare tit. “Oh my God, I’m sorry,” he says, and he thinks Xavier’s gonna make fun of him for apologizing to a piece of paper, but Xavier doesn’t even turn around; he’s too busy peeling off his jacket and shouldering his bedroom door open.

Xavier goes down on the bed and Doug tips after him, coat and scarf and all. Xavier's already shirtless, and he gasps a little as the front of Doug's coat squashes against him. He says something but Doug can't hear him over the rustling.

Maybe it’s kind of stupid to do all this with your coat on. He’s done it before, with Eva, in a bar bathroom after she just couldn’t wait any longer, just kind of…pulled it out and stuck it in and got really sweaty, because of all the down. His coat’s 600…what’s the word, not proof, that’s alcohol.

“Hey. Doug. Hey!”

Xavier’s snapping his fingers.

“That’s not nice,” Doug says automatically.

“I’ll tell you what’s not nice,” Xavier says. “Staring into space when I’m _right here_ , that’s not nice.”

“Fill,” Doug says, remembering. “600 fill.”

Xavier is staring at him. His face is the color of a strawberry. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“My coat. The down—”

He stops. Xavier’s tugging at him, at his zipper. “Take it off,” he says, “take it off, and throw that shitty scarf away, I’m sick of looking at it.”

“You can’t say that word.”

“What?”

“Scarf. You can’t say it.”

Xavier glares. Doug’s never seen him so red, not even after Coach’s craziest sprint drills. Not even after that one shitty call, when he thought Xavier was gonna go after the ref with his stick and Kim and Gord had to hold him back. “Why the hell not? Is it a bad word now, Doug? Is it mean? Scarf? _Scarf_! Sc—”

It’s weird that Xavier gets so stiff when Doug kisses him. Eva’s the opposite; she goes all boneless and floppy and holds on to him, and it’s really cute, plus he likes knowing that he’s strong enough to hold her up. But he can’t tell Xavier about Eva, it’ll upset him.

Lemme kiss you, he thinks, like Xavier will be able to hear him. Xavier can do that sometimes, on the ice: read minds, Doug’s mind specifically. So Doug squeezes his eyes shut and thinks really hard: Lemme kiss you and your funny tongue that can’t say words like _scarf_.

Xavier’s all closed up against Doug’s mouth like an angry clam; then he groans and relaxes and tilts his head back. And his mouth is really warm and soft, and his tongue mostly tastes like breakfast but also like Xavier. Xavier, Doug thinks: I’m kissing Xavier.

He jerks as Xavier’s hands touch his stomach, pushing up his coat and sweater and shirt to get at his belt. Xavier’s hands are still a little cold, and they must be numb: he’s fumbling at Doug’s belt buckle the way Doug was fumbling at the doorknob, kind of swiping at it and tugging, and shivering, too. Doug’s fly opens up just like the door, _fast_ , and there he is, heavy and hot, feeling naked even though he isn’t. Yet.

Xavier cups him through his briefs. “Fuck,” he says, “ _Dougie_ ,” and the feather-light way his lips brush Doug’s as he talks makes Doug groan. Xavier’s hands on his dick make him groan, too, and Xavier groans with him.

Xavier’s mouth is open. Doug finishes taking off his coat and goes back for more. He could probably kiss Xavier forever, he thinks, until their lips fell off, Mr. Potato Head style, or their tongues dried out, or…

But Xavier pulls away. He looks crazy, like they’re down 2-1 with 1:20 to go and Coach won’t put him on the ice. His eyes have that blazing look, that fire. He’s squeezing Doug and muttering weird stuff, like, “Look at you, so hard for me, _fuck_ , can’t believe it.”

He doesn’t know why Xavier can’t believe it. Seeing is believing, right? And touching, well, that’s like seeing, but with your hands. And Xavier’s touching him a lot. And it feels great. It’s almost embarrassing, how great it feels.

He grunts. Xavier stops. “Well, don’t come yet,” Xavier says, with a grin that goes through Doug like an electric shock, and he lets go of Doug and yanks down his pants and his underwear all the way to his ankles. And he bends his knees and lifts his hips and lets Doug look at him again, nice and close. Xavier’s had some time to recover; he doesn’t have that swollen, shiny, fucked-out look from earlier, but he still gasps when Doug touches him.

“Your hole’s so cute,” Doug says.

Xavier says some stuff in French that probably isn’t very polite. Xavier’s dick is cute, too, bigger than you’d expect, maybe, and fat, and uncut, which is unusual, in Doug’s world. It’s nice and flushed and kind of excited, twitching as it gets hard. Doug wants to pet it, and after a moment, he does. Xavier turns his head into his pillow and moans.

“Seriously,” Doug insists.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“It is!” And it turns out there’s still a lot of lube in Xavier’s ass because his fingers slip right in, one after another, and come out nice and shiny.

“ _Ostiii_ ,” Xavier says, real soft. “Gonna do it, Dougie? Gonna fuck me?”

“Yeah.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“Yeah—”

He knows Eva and Xavier both like to watch—Xavier’s watching right now, panting—but he likes watching too, watching their faces, Xavier’s face. Watching the way Xavier’s mouth keeps dropping open even though he’s trying to bite it shut, and his eyes keep sliding shut even though he’s trying to keep them open.

“God, fuck, _shit_ ,” Xavier says.

Doug’s making a noise, too, like he’s pushing something heavy. He can't stop. He probably sounds like he’s in pain but he definitely isn’t, and he hopes Xavier knows that. He doesn’t really understand why this time feels so different, why it’s _crazy_ good, like he’s sliding his dick into a mouth and a pussy and a hand all at the same time—

“Oh, no,” he says, “ _oh no_ , Xavier—I gotta—”

“That good, huh?” Xavier says. He’s breathing hard and there’s sweat on his forehead but he looks happy. “Ready to blow already?”

“I gotta pull out,” he says, “I gotta—the _condom_ —condom—we—I forgot the—”

“Oh no you don’t,” Xavier says. He wraps his legs around Doug and squeezes. Doug can’t move. All he can do is keep pushing forward, and _in_ , and he wants to, he wants to, but…

His body's shaking like it's tired, but he's not tired. It must be the coffee at Smitty's. “Xavier, _Xav_ , c’mon.”

“ _You_ c’mon,” Xavier says. He grins. “Worried about knocking me up?”

“Of course not,” Doug says, breathless: Xavier’s grins always make him feel kind of breathless. He knows Xavier’s making fun of him, but Xavier shouldn’t joke around; this isn’t something to joke about. “Ira says—”

Xavier slings an arm around Doug’s shoulders and leans up and breathes in his ear. “Fuck me, Doug, please, Dougie, _please_ , your cock feels so _nice_ —”

Xavier’s mouth is right there but his voice starts sounding farther and farther away. Doug’s got tunnel vision just like he does before a fight; his heart is beating in his ears, and his stomach feels funny, kind of light and floaty. And he’s hard. He’s super, super hard, and Xavier’s so hot around him, clamped so tight.

He must be slipping in deeper, because Xavier lets out a yelp and his fingers start to dig into Doug’s skin, and then they dig in harder, and Doug’s balls are flush against Xavier’s ass, and Xavier doesn’t even have the breath left to moan, he just clutches at Doug and kind of squeaks. Doug would go even deeper if he could, fill Xavier up until he couldn’t make any noise at all, fill him all the way up to the throat.

“God, yes, _yesss_ ,” Xavier gasps. Doug grinds into him until he starts sounding kind of ragged. His ankles are still locked behind Doug’s back, though, holding Doug in, and Doug’s tired of not being able to move; he puts his hands on Xavier’s thighs and pushes them open. Now Xavier’s pulling at him, mumbling: “No, no…”

He likes how Xavier’s hands feel, but right now they’re kind of distracting, like a pair of butterflies fluttering at his chest and shoulders and face. He grabs Xavier and scoops him up and turns him over.

“ _Doug_ ,” Xavier says, and then he shuts up as Doug spreads him and moans as Doug lines up and yells as Doug sinks back in. All the way in. And now Xavier’s sighing. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “That’s good—that’s good, Dougie, that’s—”

His voice is high and shivery and kind of jumpy, too. Every time Doug slams into him, Xavier makes a noise somewhere between a hiccup and a sob, and he says Doug’s name, over and over. Doug loves it. He loves the little ripple he can see in Xavier’s back and the bounce of his ass and the way his ass looks, too, stretched open for Doug’s dick.

“Doug, Doug, _Doug_ —”

“Yeah, say my name,” Doug says, and he looks down so he can watch the red marks his fingers are making on Xavier’s ass. He pulls out slow and pounds back in so hard Xavier’s goal light falls off the headboard. Then he does it again. Nothing else falls, but the bed creaks. He does it again, and again.

Xavier’s hugging one of his pillows to his face and screaming into it. Doug wants to hear him, though, so he slides his hand into Xavier’s hair and pulls until Xavier’s head lifts.

“Fu— _uck_!”

Xavier’s whole face is wet; there’s spit smeared across his cheek and hanging in a long string from his chin. His eyes are half-closed and teary, but as Doug’s hand tightens in his hair, they open wide, and he moans: “ _Doug_!”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Doug says. “Fuck yeah, fuck.”

“Doug, Doug—” Xavier’s touching himself, he’s pushed himself up on one elbow and wedged his arm under his hip, and he’s rocking against it, forward into his hand and backward onto Doug’s dick. Doug pulls him up a little more so he can look at him: his eyes are screwed up tight and he’s gasping. “Doug, gonna come, I’m coming, _Doug_ —”

He lets go—Xavier’s head thumps back down, but onto his pillow, so it’s probably okay. A second later Doug thumps right down on top of him. Xavier’s jerking and shuddering under him and around him and all Doug can do is try to hold on.

“You’re amazing, baby, you feel amazing, you feel so good,” he says, and it’s a stupid thing to say, but his entire brain is in his dick right now and his dick is in Xavier’s ass and he can’t think anymore.

It’s okay: his body operates mostly on instinct, anyway. His skull’s buzzing with static but his hips are still going, pumping Xavier full, getting him so wet and slippery and soft. Xavier’s screaming again and grunting into his pillow; then he goes absolutely, completely still, and Doug pulls out and rolls him over to make sure he isn’t dead.

Xavier’s mouth is open. His eyes are kind of glazed over. Then he blinks.

“ _Tabarnak_ ,” he says.

“Yeah, tabernacle,” Doug says, and then he blanks out as he watches Xavier’s hole twitch a thin whitish trickle onto the bedsheets. When his vision clears, he’s already halfway seated, fucking that mess right back into Xavier, where it belongs.

“ _Oh,_ ” Xavier says. He looks at Doug and bites the back of his hand and kind of talks into it, low, so Doug has to lean in to hear him. “You wanna wreck my ass, is that it? You wanna keep me in bed? Gonna make up some excuse for me, for Coach, when I can’t skate tomorrow?”

Xavier’s talking the way he did that other time when he was mad, when he got all up in Doug’s face, fast and whispery, only this time he isn’t mad. He’s—something else. And so is Doug. Doug’s on his bike again, he’s flying over the crest of the hill, free as air, whooping.

“I don’t wanna lie to Coach,” he says, “but all that other stuff doesn’t sound too bad.”

“And Eva?” Xavier’s legs are around him again. He crosses his ankles behind Doug’s hips and tugs, and Doug slides in, _deep_. Doug grunts, and Xavier moans, and his head flops around for a second like he can't control his neck. Then he looks up, through all the sweaty hair hanging down over his face, right at Doug. It's that crazy look again, that flaming look: it makes Doug feel like _he's_ on fire. “Don’t wanna lie to her either? Gonna tell her what you did to me?”

He doesn’t know what he’s gonna tell Eva. He hopes she won’t be upset; he wasn’t upset when she told him about the threesome, and the other threesome, and that whole weird thing with Gord. He looks back at Xavier and lets Xavier squeeze him and brushes the hair out of Xavier’s eyes. He already has a feeling it won’t matter even if she does get upset, the way it didn’t matter that his parents got mad that he was going to keep playing hockey: he was going to play.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you liked it, please [reblog](https://hallo-catfish.tumblr.com/post/633000533380235264/more-than-a-feeling-zetaophiuchi-ryuujitsu)!


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